The Arrangement Anthology 2(114)

The stillness of the house cocoons me until I fall asleep.





Chapter 5

No one knows where I am and I keep it that way. Trystan still has my cell phone, so no one can track me. The closest they’ll get is the train station and I could have gone anywhere from there. It’s nightfall by the time I wake up. My face is patterned on one side from the carpet pile. I rub it out and stretch, looking at the clock on the microwave. The dried blood on my clothing cracks and makes my skin itch and I’m so thirsty I could drink a cow. I’d give anything for a glass of cold milk right now. My throat is so dry it feels like I swallowed a flamethrower.

Blinking slowly, it dawns on me—they left the power on. Maybe the water is on too. Pushing up, I pad down the hallway to my old bathroom and turn the faucet. I expect it to do nothing, but cold, clear water comes pouring out. Yes! After leaning forward, I gulp greedily until my cracked lips no longer sting and my parched throat feels better.

I straighten and look into the mirror in the darkness. A golden streetlight casts a halo on top of my frizzy brown head, and in that moment I look so old. Gazing into the glass, I stare watching my reflection—seeing my mother’s face appear, happy and content. Her voice chimes in the back of my mind like a faded memory, half forgotten. I can’t quite hear it anymore; I can’t remember the way she spoke or that thick Long Island accent. It’s vanishing. I’m losing her. The vision fades back into my haggard appearance and I turn away.

I want to see Sean, but I can’t go anywhere looking like this. I need money. I refuse to call Black, even though I know she’ll give it to me. I want to avoid that day as long as possible. As it is, I’m sure Gabe is out looking for her investment. I bet she kills Marty if the cops don’t find him—maybe they already have. My stomach aches as my heart twists. I can’t stand this, what Marty did.

After wandering into the kitchen, I sit down on the only chair left in the house. The metal seat is cold and hard, but I don’t care. I lean back and stretch, arching my spine and staring at the cupboards. Mom had climbed up onto a stepstool to clean the upper cabinets so many times. She’d tell me it was a breeding ground for dirt. I stare at that spot, gazing at the wooden doors and the soffits above. They’ve not lived here for a while, but there’s no dust up there. It makes me lean forward and look closer. Maybe the old owners cleaned it, but that’s not why I’m staring. The upper cabinets are made of wood paneling, a remnant from an old kitchen. The last cupboard hangs at the end of a run of cabinets, jutting out slightly from the rest. It’s the style from the time the house was built. I keep staring, not understanding what I’m seeing that bothers me. Something’s not right.

The need to touch the panel overcomes me. I slide my chair over to the spot, feeling my mother calling my name as I do so. My skin prickles as the pads of my fingers touch the spot she touched so many times before. I slide my fingertips across the wood, feeling one bump after another. When my hand is at the end of the cabinet I slide it over the molding on the corner. I do it again, then once more. I laugh at myself for being silly. It’s like I want to hug this thing. The compulsion to run my palm over the wood strikes me again, so I humor myself and do it one last time. I’m ready to step off the chair, but the panel under my hand shifts slightly.

“Mom, what did you do?” As I say the words, I press my palm on the wood and shift it, making it slide out on one end. It barely moves, but it’s enough that I don’t need more prodding. Grabbing the trim on the piece of paneling now sticking off the side of the cabinet, I pull hard. The piece moves and opens, revealing a hiding place in the top of the cabinet. I stare, awestruck.

Behind the panel, under layers of dust, are old wine bottles, papers, and a coffee can. I shift through things instantly recognizing my mother’s handwriting. Stuffed in a mason jar, I find a letter sealed in an envelope that was never mailed. I take the note and break the seal, instantly feeling my mother’s soft touch on my shoulder.

It’s her handwriting. My eyes scan the words:

My dearest,

I don’t know if you’ll ever find this, but if so it means it’s too late for me. I’m so sorry, my love. Take what’s here and don’t let them find her. I’m so sorry, my love. Please forgive me.

At first I’m shocked to see her handwriting, but my surprise won’t lift. Her words seem panicked and her normally elegant handwriting seems messy and hastily written. The letter was meant for someone else, because I don’t know what she means. I assumed it was written to Daddy, making the ‘her’ in the note me.